Trapped
by Bekassin
Summary: A bank vault, a shooting and Riggs... what could go wrong?
1. Epilog

The bullets couldn't pierce through steel doors. Jim knew that. But this knowledge didn't prevent him from emptying his magazine at the door in a fruitless attempt to free himself.

"These B-"

"Language please." It came from the other side of the vault. Jim growled at the cop.

They were stuck in here for almost half an hour and this guy hadn't so much as flinched.

This idiot sat on the floor, his upper body leaning against the lock boxes, his legs stretched out in front of him. He seemed relaxed. Nonchalant even. Jim could have killed him just for that.

"They will be too late to find us in here," he spat at the cop.

"Figures," was all the cop said.

"This safe is air tight. You get that? We will die in here," he nearly screamed at the man.

"Can we do that a little quieter?"

'This asshole seems to have the time of his life,' shot through Jim's head. "I don't want to die in here!"

"Should have thought about that before you ran off with some incapable crooks," said the cop. He started loosening the strips to his bullet proofed vest. "I mean, we had everything laid out for you. Only thing you needed to do, was to stretch out your hand and get the money. How hard can it be?"

"What are you talking about?" said Jim. Frustrated, he hit the door with his rifle heel. It didn't even leave a dent.

The cop looked up, surprised for the first time. "You don't know which money you tried to steal?" he started laughing. It sounded low, like a grumble, nearly painful.

"Shut up."

The cop's laughter turned into coughing, it seemed to last forever before he finally let his head fall back against one of the lockers. His brown hair curled ridiculously over his pale face.

"This bank belongs to Gianny," said the cop.

"Gianny?" repeated Jim without any recognition in his voice.

"Gianny Manzoni." The cop turned his head to look at Jim. "Cosa Nostra."

Jim felt his hands go numb. The Mob. They were stealing 23 million dollars of mob money. No, his "buddies" were stealing 23 million dollars of mob money. He was captured in a fucking safe with a fucking cop.

The fucking cop had started his coughing again.

"Stop that," ranted Jim.

"Can't help it," answered the cop. His vest dangled loosely around him as he turned his face to Jim. "From all the places where you freaking idiots could get me." He struggled for air.

Jim glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that. This safe has a ventilation system. You'll get out of here eventually." His mouth opened to a bloody smile.

Jim stood frozen in place.

Now it was equal who would find them. If the honorable society would get to them first, they would both be dead. If the cops found them, it would get him a couple of years for bank robbery. But to be found with a dead cop... A dead cop who had a bullet in his chest that matched the caliber of your rifle, well, that would earn you a trip to the electric chair.

Jim swore again.

"Language," repeated the cop, but he couldn't suppress a wince.

"Damn it," growled Jim and let himself fall on his butt, leaning against the cold steal door.

"Why did they lock you in here?" asked the cop suddenly.

"The lord works in mysterious ways," snapped Jim.

The cop snarled, "Seems like your friends are gonna ditch you." Sweat had started to pool on his forehead.

"As long as you don't ditch me," answered Jim.

The strange cop's smile widened. "Me? No Sir."

Shooting from the outside had them both looking up.

"Hate to miss a party," said the cop.

It was Jim's turn to grin.

"Shall we bet?" said the cop.

"Bet about what?" asked Jim.

"How long they will take until somebody finds us." The cop wiggled his eyebrows.

"Are you insane?"

"Blame the blood loss," said the cop unaffected. "I say … about three hours. They need to get their car, and the money, and the hostages. It's complicated. Three hours."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Okay. I'd say more. Someone will get himself shot. They will argue… I don't know. More than three hours."

"So it's a bet." The cop beamed.

"You're insane." This time it was a statement, not a question.

"Nope. I'm Riggs." The cop waved at him.

Jim snorted. "What the hell. I'm Jim."

"Hi Jim."

For some minutes, they sat in silence. The ragged breathing of the cop was the only thing that broke the quiet. After about fifteen minutes, the cop started to shiver.

He tried hard to suppress it, as far as Jim could tell.

Without thinking Jim shrugged out of his jacked. The cop nearly yelped when he dumped the heavy leather coat on him.

"What-"

"Don't get any blood on it," rumbled Jim, already on his way back to the door.

The cop made an inaudible sound. "Not so big and bad?" he said eventually.

"I have no bullets to put you out of your misery," answered Jim. It rewarded him with another bloody grin.

 **At the moment, this is a one shot. If you guys say it's worthwhile, I'll build a story for it.**

 **Gianny Manzoni is a brilliant character from "Malavita"- an incredibly amusing and black book from Tonino Benacquista – if you ever have the possibility, read it.**


	2. Chapter 1

The bullets couldn't pierce through steel doors. Jim knew that. But that knowledge didn't prevent him from emptying his magazine at the door in a fruitless attempt to free himself.

"Those B-"

"Language please." The request came from the other side of the vault. Jim growled at the cop.

They were stuck in here for almost half an hour and this guy hadn't so much as flinched.

This idiot sat on the floor, his upper body leaning against the lock boxes, his legs stretched out in front of him. He seemed relaxed. Nonchalant even. Jim could have killed him just for that.

"They will be too late to find us in here," he spat at the cop.

"Figures," was all the cop said.

"This safe is air tight. You get that? We will die in here," he nearly screamed at the man.

"Can we do that a little quieter?"

'This asshole seems to be having the time of his life,' shot through Jim's head. "I don't want to die in here!"

"Should have thought about that before you ran off with some incapable crooks," said the cop. He started loosening the strips to his bullet proofed vest. "I mean, we had everything laid out for you. Only thing you needed to do, was to stretch out your hand and get the money. How hard can it be?"

"What are you talking about?" said Jim. Frustrated, he hit the door with the butt of his. It didn't even leave a dent.

The cop looked up, surprised for the first time. "You don't know which money you tried to steal?" he started laughing. It sounded low, like a grumble, nearly painful.

"Shut up."

The cop's laughter turned into coughing, it seemed to last forever before he finally let his head fall back against one of the lockers. His brown hair curled ridiculously over his pale face.

"This bank belongs to Gianny," said the cop.

"Gianny?" repeated Jim without any recognition in his voice.

"Gianny Manzoni." The cop turned his head to look at Jim. "Cosa Nostra."

Jim felt his hands go numb. The Mob. They were stealing twenty-three million dollars of mob money. No, his buddies were stealing twenty-three million dollars of mob money. He was captured in a fucking safe with a fucking cop.

The fucking cop had started his coughing again.

"Stop that,"

"Can't help it," answered the cop. His vest dangled loosely around him as he turned his face to Jim. "Of all the places where you freaking idiots could get me." He struggled for air.

Jim glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that. This safe has a ventilation system. You'll get out of here eventually." His mouth opened in a bloody smile.

Jim stood frozen in place.

Now it didn´t matter anymore who would find them. If the honorable society would get to them first, they would both be dead. If the cops found them, it would get him a couple of years for bank robbery. But to be found with a dead cop... A dead cop who had a bullet in his chest that matched the caliber of your rifle, well, that would earn you a trip to the electric chair.

Jim swore again.

"Language," repeated the cop, but he couldn't suppress a wince.

"Damn it," growled Jim and let himself fall on his butt, leaning against the cold steel door.

"Why did they lock you in here?" asked the cop suddenly.

"The lord works in mysterious ways," snapped Jim.

The cop snarled, "Seems like your friends are gonna ditch you." Sweat had started to pool on his forehead.

"As long as you don't ditch me," answered Jim.

The strange cop's smile widened. "Me? No Sir."

Shooting from the outside had them both looking up.

"Hate to miss a party," said the cop.

It was Jim's turn to grin.

"Shall we bet?" said the cop.

"Bet about what?" asked Jim.

"How long they will take until somebody finds us." The cop wiggled his eyebrows.

"Are you insane?"

"Blame the blood loss," said the cop unaffected. "I say … about three hours. They need to get their car, and the money, and the hostages. It's complicated. Three hours."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Okay. I'd say more. Someone will get shot. They will argue… I don't know. More than three hours."

"So it's a bet." The cop beamed.

"You're insane." This time it was a statement, not a question.

"Nope. I'm Riggs." The cop waved at him.

Jim snorted. "What the hell. I'm Jim."

"Hi Jim."

For some minutes, they sat in silence. The ragged breathing of the cop was the only thing that broke the quiet. After about fifteen minutes, the cop started to shiver.

He tried hard to suppress it, as far as Jim could tell.

Without thinking Jim shrugged out of his jacket. The cop nearly yelped when he dumped the heavy leather coat on him.

"What-"

"Don't get any blood on it," rumbled Jim, already on his way back to the door.

The cop made an inaudible sound. "Not so big and bad?" he said eventually.

"I have no bullets to put you out of your misery," answered Jim. That comment rewarded him with another bloody grin.

 **At the moment, this is a one shot. If you guys say it's worthwhile, I'll build a story for it.**

 **Gianny Manzoni is a brilliant character from "Malavita"- an incredibly amusing and black book from Tonino Benacquista – if you ever have the possibility, read it.**


	3. Chapter 2

"HE DID WHAT?" Cruz flinched and held the phone a hand span away from his head. Murtaugh took the news, that his partner was probably kidnapped by a horde of bank robbers, astonishingly good. So far he didn´t even threaten to kill anybody. Cruz inched nearer to the phone again:" AND WHEN I GET HIM AND HES DEAD THEN I´LL KILL HIM."

Cruz signed.

"WHERE ARE YOU IDOTS?"

"First National, Marketplace." answered Cruz.

The phone went silent for a couple of hearth beats:" He got kidnapped in the bank were I shall participate in an operation about a kidnapping?" this statement was followed by noises which couldn´t be good for Murtaugh´s blood pressure.

"We didn´t do it on purpose."

"The hell you did. I´ll be there in three minutes and you better have a good undertaker till then." Murtaugh hung up.

For about a minute Cruz stared through the windshield at a poster hanging on one of the city owned billboards, desperately trying to tout an exhibition called "Fancy Colors", without seeing it. He had worked for the drug cartel. He had been chased by the drug cartel. He would swap an angry Murtaugh for the drug cartel. Any day.

~o~

"Shouldn´t you be able to get us out of here?" Riggs had his eyes closed, Jim suspected partly to lead him on. As soon as he stopped looking cross eyed, the cop had propped himself against one of the volt walls. He seemed better and genuine annoyed by himself for getting shot. His favored way of revenge seemed to be taking the mickey out of Jim.

"I said I robbed banks, I can´t break safes. And if you hadn´t stepped in the way you wouldn´t have ended up here at all", quipped Jim.

"Couldn´t let them shot the cashier." answered Riggs:" Man, vaults are uncomfortable."

"You're a strange fellow, you know that?"

"Really? Nobody ever said something." mused Riggs, he coughed again and shuttered, what made him groan involuntarily.

"You ok?" Jim asked concerned.

Riggs eyes popped open.

"What?" Jim was half up already when Riggs said:" Can we bolt the door from this side?"

"The do- What? Moment, just give me a moment." Jim staggered over to the door and examined it for a couple of seconds, even knocked against it:" Don´t think so."

"Shit." swore Riggs.

"What? You think this morons will come back?"

"No, I just realized something." said Riggs, obviously in agony.

"What?"

"When there is a bank robbery, they call the police."

Jim stared at him:" And isn´t that a good thing? I thought you were a cop!"

"Yup. Unfortunately my partner is a cop also."

"Your partner?"

"Jup, mean guy. Six feet tall. Seven when he is angry."

"You working with King Kong?" asked Jim.

"Think not. Though he has a strange affectation for the empire state building." Riggs pondered.

"And what does he has to do with the door?"

"Nothing really." answered Riggs:" But when he finds out I´m in here… dunno, knowing a steel door between him and me would have been comforting."

~o~

Cruz fried. To maintain enough air to stay conscious he had lowered the driver side window. It didn't help against the merciless sun and the only thing it brought into the car was the sharp stench of melting asphalt.

The bank was nice to look at. Covered in a light sandstone, it was the last building at the dead end of the one way street. To its right there was only a walk way separating it from a well maintained park. On the left were a couple of shops, a bakery, a small supermarket, a boutique. Nothing out of the ordinary.

No police car had shown itself and that alone made Cruz´s bones itch.

He scrubbed his brow, while he watched the green sprinter the gang had parked in front of the bank.

Parked. No getaway driver in sight.

That didn´t make sense.

Talking about senseless things:

No one in his right mind would bring such a recognizable car to a bank robbery.

No one in his right mind would rob this bank.

Cruz surly wouldn´t. Only one way out. Small streets, but not twisty enough to get rid of any chasers.

Somebody must have thought about that. With so many robberies tanking place at once, there was not enough room for it to be coincidental. Somebody must have planned something.

You needed a lot of work to pull something like that off. You couldn´t do it with a two digit IQ either.

There had to be a reason behind that. Behind the banks they selected. Behind the green sprinter.

Something was missing. There was a crack in the picture.

It was more a prickle in his brain, than an actual thought. Something that only happened at the corner of his eyes. Cruz had learned to trust this seemingly unimportant movements a long time ago.

He started the engine and eased the pick up out of the parking space.

He only drove far enough along the narrow street to be out of sight for the robbers. He let the truck drift to the left, onto the pavement. Then sharply turned right until it was vertical to the actual street. This way he couldn´t block the street completely. But enough to stop them from using the sprinter to get away.

He put the truck in first gear, pulled the handbrake and slid out of the car, wishing with all his might, that they had allowed him a gun.

The only thing that would help him against these thugs, was the radio, which was as useful as an inflatable dartboard.

He should stay in the car. He really should.

He made his way around the building of the bank, without a glance towards it he headed straight for the park. He followed the line of the trees far enough to find an ally at the backside of the First Republic. He came as far as the dumpsters at the entrance of the backstreet, when a cell started ringing. Out of pure instinct he flipped himself behind one of the dumpsters on the sudden noise.

Uncomfortably sure, that he sat in a half-eaten banana, he lunged in his pocked to see the caller ID.

He frowned and answered the call.

"Tell me that they are still there." bellowed Murtaugh´s voice.

"Think so." hissed Cruz and tried catch a glimpse around the dumpster.

"We can´t reach the bank." growled Murtaugh. Cruz was about to apologies when Murtaugh added:" A freaking gasoline truck is burning at the entrance of the street."

"What?"

"Looks like an accident. Taxi got run over by the truck, another semi smashed in its side, jammed it in the street entrance. No idea why it is burning. I think somebody said something about sending mounted police through the park. Idiots." He sounded beyond pissed.

"This stinks." answered Cruz.

"Geeh, You think?"

Cruz thought he heard car doors snapping in the background of the call, sirens howling.

If he concentrated he could hear them behind his dumpster as well.

"Stay where you are. We are on our way." Murtaugh seemed preoccupied by something next to him, then a sudden explosion burst in the sky.

It was loud enough to make the birds in the trees behind Cruz fly up.

"Murtaugh?" spit Cruz.

It took a couple of seconds, then Murtaugh´s battered voice said:" Damn thing blew up."

"You´re allright?"

"Yeah.", a pause, muffled screaming, then:" We are coming. Stay put." the line went dead and Cruz stared at his phone.

This was so beyond him.

Scraping the banana mush from his backside he crouched behind the metal of the garbage container and racked his brain trying to figure out what to do next.

A bank backdoor liberated him from this considerations. Simply by swinging open.

~o~

The bank volt door screeched and swung up so suddenly that Jim jumped backwards to avoid being hit by it.

Two man, both wearing unobtrusive all black, inclusive the obligatory ski mask, made their way into the volt. Both of them held semiautomatic weapons.

Riggs eyebrows shot up:" Hey", he even managed to wave at them:" You know, what is being said about guys with big guns?"

One of the newcomers pointed his gun at him.

"Sure you do." Riggs winked at the guy.

"Don´t", growled Jim. He eyed the two guys wearily, slowly backing up.

"Stop wasting time", a voice from outside called. The other gun was pointed too.

"No!" involuntary Jim had stepped in front of Riggs, both hands raised:" You know how much you get for a murder?"

"Not enough", said Riggs, when all eyes turned to him he shrugged painfully:" I heard."

One of the ski masks growled: "Shut up. Get up."

"Powerade.", added Riggs:" No wait. That was different."

The other ski mask looked at the first one, clearly confused.

"Get them out of here", the outside voice again.

"You wouldn´t want him." snarled Jim.

"That was insensitive", hissed Riggs, but Jim ignored him:" He is a cop. An injured cop. Do you know what will happen if he dies?"

"I´ll haunt your asses." smirked Riggs.

"Take me. Ok? I can walk by myself", Jim tried to tune out the cop behind him.

"Jim.", Riggs tried again, suddenly way to focused for the way he had been acting:" Don´t do this."

"Can it.", growled the former bank robber, louder he carried on:" I mean, look at him. You don´t want a hostage like that. That's unpractical."

"Who said we are taking hostages?" the outside voice appeared in the volt door. It was a young man, dressed smartly in a two piece suite...and a red balaclava. He reached inside his jacked, and Jim dove for his abandoned rifle.

It was empty. But none of this thugs knew.

Without missing a beat the pimp followed Jim through the volt. He made a disapproving sound when Jim raised the rifle, stepped right at him and pushed something against his arm.

Jim fell down like a bag of potatoes.

"You want to be a hero too?" asked the coxcomb in Riggs direction.

The detective shrugged:" What does a hero get?"

"All the electricity he can swallow." Said the dandy, the taser in his hand crackled.

"Oh glee." said Riggs, realizing a moment to late, that the dude didn´t spoke sarcasm.

There was an explosion of light, and then darkness.


	4. Chapter 3

Cruz peered over the edge of the dumpster. He saw a whole group of men coming out of the back exit. All of them, except for one, wearing black ski masks and some kind of all black uniforms. They looked ridiculous. Like every second class action movie director would make his bad guys look.

Some of them had huge backpacks strapped on, making them shuffle around like tortoises in mourning.

Though the last one to appear in the door was a different story. He was dressed neatly in a beige two-piece suit and pulled something that looked like a red beanie out of his pocket. He stopped in the doorframe and gave the beanie to the guy in front of him who, instead of a backpack, was carrying a limp body over his shoulder.

Horror seared through him as Cruz realized the body was indeed Riggs, very pale and not moving.

The black dressed guy stood still while he stuffed the beanie over Riggs' head, pulling it down over his face. A ski mask. A red ski mask.

'What the…' shot through Cruz's head.

The two-piece man looked up at the wall to his right, measuring something. He then nodded to one of the other guys, who came to him and strapped his arms on his back. He then shoved the two-piece guy into the alley.

The two-piece guy glared at him but stopped his reaction to the manhandling at that. The guy who had pushed him into the alley handed him to the bloke next to him and walked over to a door opposite of the bank exit. He opened it with a key.

Three of the black dressed men swarmed through the door. Two came out again pushing motorbikes. They were the lean, agile ones you would see in dirt bike competitions.

Methodically, the bikes were spread among the black dressed men. Only then, Cruz realized that there was another limp body over the shoulder of one of the other men. The second body was also wrapped in the ridiculous all black uniform.

The two bare backed guys mounted their bikes and waited. Riggs was seated behind the one on the red bike, and strapped firmly to the guy. His boots were stuffed into the footrests, his hands strapped on his back.

The same happened with the other unconscious man and the two-piece guy. He tried to pick a fight with the man pushing him down on the bike, but a shiny barrel held very close to his temple made him reconsider this idea immediately.

Then they started the engines. One after the other, they made their way out of the ally, not looking back and not having said one word during all their preparations.

That was the moment the second explosion hit.

The second to last driver flinched. His bike swayed, but he caught it just in time.

The last one wasn't so lucky. He was surprised by his companion's actions, and could only avoid the collision by swerving dangerously off the road. Cruz saw him fall and hit the ground running, making it to the bike in time with the thug. Under normal circumstances, the hood would have won. He was at least a head taller than Cruz and heavily built. But he'd just fallen off his bike, was favoring his left leg, swayed under the heavy load on his back, and had no idea what hit him when Cruz just rammed him to the side and picked up the bike.

It started again on the first try. Cruz could hear the angry scream of the guy, could feel his fingers trying to get a hold of his shirt. He would have had more luck with the bike frame, but the slick fabric slipped through his fingers and Cruz was off.

~o~

Murtaugh pocketed his phone and stumbled through the aftermath of the second explosion. There were people screaming. There were always people screaming. And there was blood.

An ambulance lay on its side like a gutted animal, its lights still flashing.

He found his car, littered with debris, the fallout of the blown up gasoline truck. On his way to it, he stumbled over a child seat; Spider-Man looked back at him. This seat had been empty even before it was tossed out to get to the mother, who was pinned behind the wheel. She would be brought to a hospital, a concussion, some bruises, but her baby was safe. Home with grandma. He glanced at the seat. His daughter had one just like this.

Forcing the bile back down his throat, he made it over to the police car.

A young officer talked on the radio, standing outside with her head through the car window.

She looked directly at him, but saw something completely else, her eyes glazed. Suddenly she blinked and focused on him. She let the radio sink down and he knew it was bad. So he used the thing that was drilled in every policeman since the dawn of time: Do what your angry superior wants.

He told her to get this crossing cleared and support the city by not getting herself killed. Not with this exact wording, but with this exact hope. As he expected, she lost the forlorn look and scattered.

He stood there for a solid ten seconds, waiting for somebody to tell him what to do.

His phone rang. Without thinking about it, he took the call. Bailey's voice bellowed something. He was still gazing over the battleground in front of him when her shouting finally made it through the padding in his shocked brain, "Murtaugh, answer dammit."

"What?"

It sounded like Bailey took a shuddering breath. "Do you have any casualties?"

"No. No, we had two explosions, some injured. Nobody dead."

She sighed. He could hear shouting in the background from her end.

"Bailey, what is going on here?"

"Three more raids. Seven in total. There are accidents on five huge crossings, a gasoline station in 34th is burning, every one of the other robberies has either two getaway cars or a shit load of cross bikes. And five of them left a man in with the hostages."

"Distract and stall," he said numbly.

"I know. Any idea what for?" answered Bailey; she sounded like she was ready to shoot somebody.

"Don't know," growled Murtaugh. "But it's working." He sighed and then said, "Bailey, we might have a problem."

She just snorted. "Go ahead, make my day."

~o~

Cruz darted after the bikes. Nothing seemed able to stop them, or even slow them down.

Gaping, Cruz watched one of them drive up the front of a parked car and down over the rear to avoid an oncoming bus.

The robbers were moving fast, looking like a swarm of angry, black hornets, splitting up and constricting again.

None of them glanced back, not even once. They all seemed to know where to go, the way they meandered between and over cars, worming their way through the packed streets.

Cruz ignored the protests he caused by riding straight over a red crossing. L.A. traffic was always a problem. There was always a jam, an accident, someone who ran over a fire hydrant, a film crew blowing something up. Cruz couldn't recall a single day when they had been able to maintain clear streets.

Then, suddenly the bikes split up. Like the sparks of a firework. Losing themselves in alleys or vanishing between startled pedestrians.

It was a marvelous idea, Cruz pondered. With the bikes, and only with the bikes, anyone stood a chance of getting somewhere.

Cruz had long ago decided to stay behind Riggs. Tailing after the limp body of his colleague, he chased down two major LA streets, shocked by the sights that met him. He counted three more massive crashes and a burning gasoline station. Sirens howled in the distance, not able to get to where they were needed.

Then they left the inner circle of destruction. Eventually, there were fewer cars stuck and more so moving. Police posts had been installed.

It started to look less like something from a Mad Max movie and more like L.A. Unfortunately, more and more like the L.A. Cruz knew.

Dirty streets and run down warehouses. Cars without tires, their rusty axles jacked up by bricks. Graffiti coloring shacks of corroded corrugated iron.

Cruz recognized some of the gang signs, some well enough to make his neck prickle, but he didn't take the time for a second look.

Sporadically, figures looked up when the two bikes shot past them. Cruz noticed a scruffy old man, who stopped his cart to holler something after them. Three houses down, on the pavement in front of a garbage-strewn front yard, two girls skipped rope. Neither of them wore shoes. The slapping of their bare feet on the asphalt mixed with the roaring of the chasing bikes.

Riggs' head flapped in the airstream. Like a rag doll, at the mercy of the physics of their flight.

Cruz had trouble following the kidnapper, no thought about catching up with him. Even if he had been able to do it, had been able to draw level with the other bike, he wouldn't have done it. Riggs didn't wear a helmet. No protective clothing. If there would have been an accident, it wouldn't have been the kidnapper who had unfiltered contact with the pavement.

The houses at the street sides got smaller.

Still the kidnapper kept his head straight forward. Cruz couldn't say if he wasn't able to turn around, with Riggs strapped to his back, or if the other man simply thought Cruz was a part of the plan. Everything so far had been timed so perfectly, that the guy simply would not question the other bike.

~o~

Murtaugh didn't like it. He didn't like running along a perfectly empty street with a drawn gun. He didn't like the look of the three policemen running with him. They looked like they belonged in a playgroup. Together they made a pitiful sight. He panting, the three little ones, and Henry. Henry was a patrolman. A patrolman who through pure happenstance had been at the very wrong place at the very wrong time, when everything suddenly… blew up.

Murtaugh squeezed himself around a red pickup truck that was strangely parked in the middle of the road. He knew the truck. Cursing, he tried to get a hold of Cruz for the sixth time, but the youth didn´t pick up his damn phone.

He peered into the driver's cabin of Riggs' truck. Aside from the usual chaos of empty fast food wrappers, an impressive collection of dirty shirts, and out of incomprehensible causes a cosmopolitan magazine, nothing was visible on the scuffed seats.

Judging by her reaction, his partner's solo hadn't made Bailey happy. And she didn't even know about Cruz. As a former gang member, Cruz only was out of jail to help them against the organized smuggling. The shit he pulled right now would bring him back behind bars faster than Riggs could shout "please aim for the knees".

Leaving the truck behind, Murtaugh made his way nearer to the bank. It was an inconspicuous building. The freestone facade shimmered with heat. A green sprinter was parked in front of it. Murtaugh stopped short, looking at the strange vehicle. A bank robber with even a notch more self respect than a slice of toast wouldn't bring such an abomination. It was just something you wouldn't do.

"Sir?" asked a kiddie from his personal group of preschoolers. Murtaugh turned towards her. The young woman hesitated, her eyes jumped between the bank and her superior.

There certainly hadn't been a class in preparation for this situation. They had left the cars on the still burning crossing. Murtaugh would have preferred to have left Henry and the preschoolers there, too. All he had wanted to do was go to the bank and observe. Alone.

It was the wrong thing to do. He knew it. But with Riggs in this bank and with Cruz M.I.A., doing nothing hadn't been an option. At least not an option he could have lived with.

And they had given him back up. Freaking back up.

It was one thing to walk into a hostage drama if there was no other officer who could catch any bullets. It was something completely different to be followed by a bunch of newbies you had the strong urge to lock up until everything was over. The last thing he wanted to do was explain to a wife, or worse a mother, why he had gotten her child killed. Or to Henry's widow.

"You two!" decided Murtaugh and pointed at the red haired police woman and the

African-American officer next to her. "Go back to the truck and get behind it. If something comes your way, you duck. Got it?" They nodded and started moving.

"Henry," Murtaugh addressed the elderly man, who desperately clasped his gun, "Take the fledgling and try to find cover opposite of the bank. Preferably in a house. Impound a kitchen if you have to."

Henry seemed to be relieved by these orders, his new foundling was not.

"But Sir," started the – oh hell he was just a boy – and Murtaugh saw all the stupid police movies in him. All these stories where the hero never died and the bad guys didn't last longer than ninety minutes.

"Cover. Houses. Now." He interrupted the boy.

The boy's mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth. He looked shocked.

Good. Perhaps shocked enough to stay behind something that would catch slugs.

"I'll have a look around the back," he informed Henry while shoving his gun back in the holster. Murtaugh was the only one of his merry troop who wore civilian clothing. He squared his shoulders, bored his hands in his pants pockets, and started strolling along the street. He even whistled.

Hopefully, they had already shot Riggs, or he would never hear the end of it.

~o~

The terrain steepened as they left the spurs of the city behind them. Cruz's bike lurched in the serpentines that twisted their way up the hills and made him wish he had spent more of his time on two wheels. Perhaps than he wouldn't have been so dead afraid in every turn when the abyss smiled beneath him. They were too far out for shit like this.

The guy and Riggs remained in front of him, drew him out in the burned mounds. Ostensibly, this seared soil ought to be a national park. Cruz starred at the burst rocks and thought about what that said about the nation in question.

His fingers were numb from the cold of the wind, and the burning on his cheeks and arms told him that he had spent too much time under this sun.

The boulders grew higher and he started to lose sight of Riggs and the other bike every time they vanished behind a twist.

The street pressed itself between the unmoving crag on the one side and the yawing nothing on the other. Squirmed away from the city like a viper that realized its pursuer wore snakeskin boots.

Cruz caught glimpses of Riggs, reminding him of the streetlamp lights on a nightly car ride. Darkness, light, darkness, light, darkness, Riggs, crag, Riggs, crag, Riggs, crag –

Crag.

Cruz heart sped up. He took the next turn.

And the next.

No bike.

No Riggsnapper.

No Riggs.

With clammy fingers, Cruz stopped the bike. He gazed around him, drilled glances into the surrounding fallow.

Nothing. No movement.

Cruz tried to slow down his breathing, to listen, over his pounding heart.

He couldn't have lost them. It was impossible. Even if they skipped off the street and down the dip, he would have heard them. A scream. A crash. Dust. Something.

An engine came howling to life and Cruz spotted a glistening shadow scurrying out of a nook in the crag. Cruz tore his bike around and darted back, only out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement in the nook. Slithering he brought the bike to a halt, jumped off, let the machine drop on the street while he sprinted back to the part of the scarp where Riggs tried to get upright. With his hands still bound behind his back, Riggs more shoved than actually righted his body, but he nearly made it until his left leg gave way and he fell back against the rock.

He looked ridiculous with his stupid balaclava, tumbling and tripping, and Cruz hadn't seen anything more beautiful in his whole life.

"Riggs?"

Riggs' head shot up and, for a moment, he stared at the running youth. The little part of visible skin around Riggs' eyes wrinkled in a way that told Cruz about the smiling face beneath the cloth. Than the eyelids started to drop again and Riggs allowed his body to sink back against the stone.

"No! Get up!" wheezed Cruz as an engine roared behind him. Not stopping in his sprint, Cruz looked over his shoulder and saw the thug on the bike approaching him. He sped up.

For five seconds, for five glorious, aching, infinite seconds, Cruz could stick to the illusion of being fast enough. Than the bike reached him and a hard hit on the back of his head ripped him out of the red rocks.

~o~

The damn back entrance to the crappy bank stood open. Just open. No robbers. No hostages. No Cruz. No nothing.

Murtaugh slide in the alley and pulled out his gun again. He remained in the shadows of the building's walls. He was too underpaid for this shit.

He secured the entrance with a fast movement and stepped into the bank. In the back of his head rattled the list of regulations he was currently breaking. The number was impressive. Riggs would have been so proud.

The inside of the bank was quiet, apart from a steady rustling in the main area. It wasn't enough to be real activity, but enough to suspect people in it. Murtaugh stopped and listened. The bank emitted some kind of habitual tranquility. Beige walls interrupted by a green stripe painted around hip heights. Dark wooden doors. Milky blinds covered the windows, only in sporadic rays of sunshine danced dust.

The rustling again. While Murtaugh sneaked forward, his steps were swallowed by the carpet. Also green, dark with small black sprinklings, that presumably should lighten the work of the cleaning staff. This wasn't a big bank. No marble. No frosted glass walls. Nobody would come here in the search of hedge funds. Old ladies with little dogs brought their money to banks like this one. Children would get their first passbook here, together with a ballpoint pen and a calendar.

Murtaugh peeked over the high counter in the entrance area and saw six bodies, hogtied, gagged and with their eyes covered. They laid lined up on the ground.

None of them seemed hurt. At least the absence of blood was encouraging. The little remaining police officer that Riggs hadn't managed to beat out of him made him check the building before he came back to the bodies. It was empty. Nothing indicated a robbery, nothing besides a bloody wall and a bulletproof vest that had waited for him in the vault.

Murtaugh tried to believe it belonged to a robber. He almost managed to do so. But only almost.

His partner had proved nearly magnetic in this way. If the metal was in a bullet shape it would automatically change its flight path for Riggs.

It took less than five to round the counter. The hostages started to twitch while he kneeled next to them.

"I'm from the police. It's okay." He kept his murmur up like a mantra while he removed the first blindfold. A middle aged woman, curly, chin-length hair, glasses on a chain, blue eyes.

He liberated her from the gag and she was visibly struggling to not spit on the carpet.

"Are they gone?" she asked finally, while Murtaugh had a look at her arms. They were tied together with zip ties.

"All gone. Have you got any scissors?"

"The dark desk. Top drawer." She nodded in the direction of the desk in question.

"Are you alright?" asked Murtaugh, because he simply hadn't thought about asking earlier.

She only raised an eyebrow. "Not my first robbery," she said.

Murtaugh tore the drawer open and was thankful for the fact that women like that never robbed banks. Nobody would be able to stop them. Even if you stood directly in front of them. They would only tell you to stand still and not be silly. Even if you were the one with the gun and the SWAT team.

He cut through her ties and handed over the scissors while he called Henry.

The man was instantly ready to secure the empty bank for however long it would take. With every officer he could get ahold of. With the whole kindergarten.

Murtaugh sighed.

He pensively watched Henry and his toddlers helping the bank staff. Not all of them were as stoic as the blue-eyed lady. A lanky man in a too large suit was visibly shaking, a gray haired employee had an arm dropped around his shoulders and guided him over to a chair.

Two young women simply remained seated on the floor. They gawked in the dim light of the room. One of them wore a string of false pearls, the other one a silver necklace with a heart shaped pendant. Shoulder length hair, sleeveless blouses, open faces, the first one laughed, the second one reacted very slowly, but finally joined her. Shock.

Murtaugh sighed again. They hadn't seen other hostages. They hadn't seen the kidnapper longer than two minutes. They hadn't seen them leave. They were useless.

Murtaugh dialed again.

Bailey picked up before the first ring ended. "Yes?" The background noises had changed. There was still the buzzing of voices. Hushed conversations, rattling, sounds Murtaugh associated with an office.

"First national is empty. We found five hostages, all tied up, all unharmed."

"Good," snapped Bailey. Something was clicking. Computer keys. She was typing something while she talked to him. "Get this crap over here and then get me the guy in charge of this mess around Lexington." She bellowed. Before she turned back to her talk with Murtaugh he could hear sirens, motor sounds, a door snapped shut.

"And..." started Murtaugh.

Bailey made a reluctant sound. She had heard too many 'and's today.

"...two officers are missing."

The clicking stopped. He listened to her cursing before she asked. "Riggs and who else?"

~o~

Riggs was pissed. He had no idea why, but that didn't stop him from enjoying it. He got his head high enough to look around him.

Rocks. Red Rocks.

Well, that was new.

The last thing he could remember was the inside of a bank vault.

He squinted his eyes against the sun and tried to recognize something.

A good deal of his body hurt. He registered it with the same part of the brain that would register next week's weather forecast. Completely baffled by the luxury of being able to keep the pain at bay.

Something grinded, not far from him.

His head turned slowly in the general direction of the sound, and his eyes needed even longer to focus. He started to shout the second he saw the situation in front of him.

A thug with a mask leaned over a prone body – Cruz. One of the guy's hands was at Cruz's belt, the other fumbled with something at the youth's trousers.

"Fuck off!" Riggs shoved himself up against the wall, felt the stone tear open his arms. He propelled himself forward, stumbling towards the thug.

The guy's head shot up. With a fluid movement, he withdrew the hand from Cruz's belt and got up.

"Get away from him!" roared Riggs.

The guy gave him a measured look and pocketed something before turning and walking to his bike. He didn't even walk quickly, and that vexed Riggs. This asshole knew, knew that he would get away.

He reached his machine after what felt like an eternity. Unhurriedly mounting and starting it, he shared one last look with Riggs, then chugged away in what must have been the slowest police chase since the invention of the word "Halt!".

He stopped after not even twenty meters and drew a gun. Two explosions in rapid succession echoed, while the guy shot something on the ground. The engine growled and that was the last they heard of the guy. He made his way back to the city, without a glance back and without any concern.

"Cruz?" Riggs had waited and now more wobbled than walked towards the youth, who thankfully had started to move again. A hand came up and grasped at dark hair.

A groan.

"-ggs?" the youth tried to sit up, but realized quickly the idiocy of the idea.

"Stay down." Growled Riggs and let himself fall on his knees next to Cruz. No visible blood. That was nice.

"He still 'ere?" asked a rough voice.

"Scrammed," answered Riggs. He had folded himself over the youth in an attempt to shield him from the sun. His scrunched face mostly hidden under an arm draped over it.

"Look at me," demanded the cop.

"´hat?" murmured Cruz.

"Three seconds, take away that arm and open your eyes."

Cruz didn't react. He waited for hands that would drag the arm away, tap against cheeks and force eyes open. But they never came.

In the end, surprise lifted Cruz's arm and curiosity opened his eyes.

Riggs stared at two equally sized pupils. Immediately, the eyes snapped shut again and two hands slammed in front of them. "Shit that's bright."

Riggs chuckled.

One of the hands abandoned the clenched eyes and waved Riggs nearer. "Turn around."

"What?"

"Your arms, turn around." Riggs turned around and let the youth inspect his shackles.

"´ip ties." Cruz muttered finally. "Try getting your hands as far away from each other as possible."

There was a low hiss.

"Is that a lighter?" asked Riggs.

"Just keep still," growled Cruz.

The smell of burning plastic billowed through the hills. Riggs bared his teeth against the sensation of scorching heat against his wrists. Moments before the actual blistering started, the shackles snapped.

Riggs whirled around immediately. Cruz had sunk back on the ground, his eyes closed, his breathing flat, the lighter still grasped in his hand.

Carefully, Riggs lifted the youth's head off the ground and lightly let his hand wander over Cruz's scull. He cursed when he found the lump on the back of the youth's head and cursed a little more when his hand came away bloody.

"Can you get up?" asked Riggs.

"`hat?"

"Shadow. Over there."

"Shadow," Cruz repeated, before he quickly turned away from Riggs and emptied his stomach into the beautiful countryside of the national park.

"Fantastic," stated Riggs flatly.


End file.
